


Bi-Tonal Cadenza

by Ebyru



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Crack, Jealousy, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romantic Comedy, Slice of Life, my bad song lyrics, natasha is the best matchmaker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 23:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3227021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebyru/pseuds/Ebyru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is a struggling musician, living with an art student named Steve – his best friend. He can’t seem to find his muse, until he realizes that he’s been under his nose the entire time. Along the way, he meets a playful redhead, a lazy coworker and a few bar owners who support his dream of being a rockstar. <br/>*The original idea came from the lovely <a href="http://truthismusic.livejournal.com">truthismusic</a> (with extras from yours truly).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Miri](http://caitlinshipswestallen.tumblr.com) on tumblr (thanks again!)  
> Written for the 2014 - [MCU Reversebang](http://mcu-reversebang.livejournal.com).  
> ~Art link coming soon.
> 
> Cadenza means 'an improvised or written-out ornamental passage played or sung by a soloist or soloists.'

In the middle of singing _I got a girl with big boobs,_ Bucky realizes there’s gum underneath his shoe, and he nearly falls forward with his guitar against his chest trying to wipe it on the sidewalk. Whoever was playing this corner before him was an asshole - no consideration for the next dude coming. On the plus side, no one notices him trip because most people ignore street musicians. It feels more acute for him; he’s seen how they treat violinists or opera singers. Just ‘cause all he’s got is a guitar doesn’t mean they need to ignore him and offer him food instead of change. He’s not that poor, goddammit! (He will be if they continue to do it.)

One more song, he tells himself, this could be the one. Maybe they’ll like his song about taking twins home from a bar. Bucky strums and sings his homemade lyrics – no special privilege like popstars – but no one really pays him any mind. An old woman comes by and hits him with her purse. Time to call it a day. Besides, Steve’ll be back soon from art school.

 

\---

 

Steve Rogers is Bucky’s oldest and dearest friend, but also his roommate. They both needed someone to help with bills because of how little money they scraped up. Bucky because he only worked part time at a coffee shop since his dream was to be a musician; and Steve needed help because school took up most of his time. One day, maybe sooner than Bucky will get a record deal, he’ll be a famous artist with his own gallery full of paintings. If only he had more confidence in his talent.

When they were kids, Steve was a scrawny kid who was bullied a lot for his size – that’s how they met actually. Bucky was passing by on his way to a candy store and heard some big guys wailing on a smaller one, and he couldn’t just let it happen. So he stepped in and they’ve been friends ever since. The thing is, Steve is bigger than Bucky now, but he doesn’t seem to realize. He still wears clothes that are too large for him, hunches over when he walks down the street as if trying to avoid being picked on, and stays quietly in his corner doing art. He still acts like a little guy. The truth is, he’s a big guy; he’s intimidating enough that no one wants to mess with him. Bucky thinks it gives him charm though, so he doesn’t say anything.

Their apartment is in the centre of the four places that Bucky goes to most: the two street corners he likes, the bar with the hot blond owner, and the other bar with the black guy who makes him laugh so much he cries. It’s also right near Steve’s school, but that’s not somewhere he’s allowed to visit often; Steve says he embarrasses him. Apparently, he acts like a doting parent when he comes to meet him at the college.

Bucky can hear Steve humming along to the radio as he jingles his keys in the hall. They’re somewhere in his bag, he knows, but he can’t seem to get a grasp on them. It might help if he hadn’t just haphazardly thrown all his change from the day in his bag too. Steve unlocks and opens the door for him, and says, “Sounds like you might have enough for that new guitar, Buck.”

 _If only._ He sighs, shaking his head. “Not yet. How were your classes?”

“It’s school. Same old, same old.” He walks around the kitchen table and into the living room where he has charcoal ready to use on a blank canvas. He glances over his shoulder, giving Bucky the sweetest smile. “Would you mind modeling for me again? I need to have this done for Friday.”

“They give you assignments a week in advance? That’s nice of them.” Bucky puts his guitar down next to the fridge, his bag next to it, kicking off his shoes and leaving them next to the door. “All right, let me just get some grub in me first.”

“I made your favourite,” says Steve, putting his dirty smock on. Bucky doesn’t makes fun of it; Steve can’t afford the right equipment. He never makes fun of Bucky for using a guitar he found in the garbage either.

Bucky opens the fridge. “You really made me custard tarts? How do you even make them look that nice?” He takes two out, shoving one in his mouth, and holding the other close to his body, fighting the urge to say _my precioussss_. Steve hates his movie references.

“I’m not an art major for nothing.” He laughs, stretching his arms above his head. The canvas is all set up with charcoal and chalk, a wet rag in a bucket nearby for when his hands get too messy to do the details.

Bucky munches down the second tart, his hands sticky with the honey glazing Steve put on the outside. He’s sucking his fingertips while Steve keeps stretching and they lock eyes for a second, just a moment, and it feels…different. There was a look in Steve’s eyes, and probably the same one in his since he was watching Steve’s muscles in his chest and arms as they shifted underneath his thin t-shirt. At home, he wears clothes that are often too tight because he knows they’ll get wrecked from his schoolwork anyway.

The moment evaporates and Bucky teasingly says, “Trying to make me fat so only one of us gets famous?”

Steve chuckles, turning away, but Bucky still catches the bit of flush crawling up his neck. “Get over here so I can finish and make us supper.”

“Yes, sir!” Bucky marches over, passes his fingers through his hair, and gets into a position that won’t hurt too much if he stays in it for three hours. Steve hums his approval of the hands-on-hips stance, disappearing behind his canvas.

This part he can handle. Steve’s gaze is always a bit intense when he’s drawing or painting. But what happened earlier, that moment of warmth that rushed through him and he saw mirrored in Steve’s gaze - that was unexpected.

Mid-way, Steve asks, “Do you need a break? I can stop for a few minutes.”

“Nah, keep going. I need something to calm me down for later.”

“Oh, there’s another open mic tonight?” Steve isn’t really looking at him anymore. He’s seeing him as a tool; he’s now a mannequin or a statue. He’s not Bucky so long as there’s an instrument in Steve’s hands.

Bucky almost nods, but remembers he’s not supposed to move. “Yes there is. You coming?”

“Can’t. I have two other assignments to work on after this one. When’s the next event?”

Every time Steve peeks out from behind his canvas, he’s covered in more and more charcoal blotches. There’s some on his forehead and even on his chin. He must have gotten an itch and not bothered to wipe his hands off first. He chuckles under his breath until Steve narrows his eyes. “Bucky?”

“Um, you know. Probably in a week. I’ll let you know when I find out.”

 

\---

 

 

Two hours later, the canvas is done – at least on Bucky’s end. He spends a good half hour during supper trying to get his muscles to loosen up; it will interfere with his guitar strumming at the show if he can’t fix it. Afterwards, Bucky devours another custard-fruit tart, and heads out the door with a silent wave. It wouldn’t be smart to distract Steve when he’s in his artistic zone, standing in front of another blank canvas with determination in his eyes.

The wind outside whips at Bucky’s face, forcing him to tug his collar up and cover his cheeks. In a couple of months, summer will be creeping in, but until then he needs to borrow one of Steve’s hipster scarves. Also, he forgot to change _shoes_ , so there’s a weird pause between each step, the gum making his left foot lag behind. He scuffs his shoe on the pavement, trying to pry it off but it won’t budge. He sighs and rushes into the bar. There’s a boisterous, blond bar owner to speak to, and Bucky doesn’t want to be late.

Rushing up to the bartender, Bucky says, “Is Thor here yet?”

The bartender shakes his head. “Open mic is in an hour. He’ll probably be here in thirty.”

“Thanks,” he says, eyes trailing around the bar for a familiar face. The crowd seems to change every week. Maybe they don’t like the talent in the area. He turns back to the bartender. “Can I get a beer? Your cheapest one.”

“No problem.” The bartender pops the cap and hands it over. “Four bucks.”

“That’s your cheapest?” Bucky snorts. Thor would have given him free drinks if he were here. “Here’s a five. Go crazy.”

 

\---

 

Just like the bartender said, Thor waltzes in at seven thirty. He has a large red scarf around his face, with blond locks tucked underneath it. His hair’s even longer than it was last month. Bucky waves, and Thor roars out a pleased laugh.

“Ah! You returned. I’m glad.” He claps Bucky on the back, pitching him forward with the strength of it. He and Steve would make an interesting pair if they ever met. Thor glances around, lowering his voice – as much as he can – and says, “I believe you can win tonight. There are not many contestants for the competition.”

“And the prize is still five hundred, right?”

Thor grins. “Indeed. You will have enough to acquire a new guitar.”

Bucky nods fervently. He can already picture it: a warm, brown colour, smooth curves, strings that don’t break free every other day. She’ll be a perfect beauty. “When do I go on?”

“You may be first if you so choose.” Thor smiles, pressing a large hand against Bucky’s shoulder. “I will be cheering for you.”

“Thanks, buddy. I appreciate it.”

 

\---

 

Unfortunately, Thor didn’t mention that his brother Loki was the judge this time. If it were Peggy or Pepper, he might have won. They cherish all aspects of musicians; the more charm and personality, the better even. Loki…seeks musical perfection. Bucky’s lyrics are mediocre even to his own ears.

Loki’s gaze sharpens when he gets into his _Big Boobs_ song:

 

_I like big boobs,_

_and I cannot lose._

_You other brothers can’t refuse_

_that when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist,_

_and some round things in your face,_

_you get hung!_

 

Loki scribbles notes down on a paper, passing them over to Thor with a grimace. Thor’s eyes widen and he looks up at Bucky, his eyes drooping with sadness. Bucky lost again. Loki is a jerk who doesn’t think sexual songs have any value. He chooses a woman who sings about her father’s alcoholism and leaves the stage crying. Even Bucky tears up a bit by the end of her set; she deserves it.

Bucky takes a moment to say goodbye to Thor – who insists on hugging him and sending him off with a case of beer on the house – then trudges back the few blocks to his apartment. He drinks on the way there, leaving a trail of beer bottles behind him. Someone can collect them and get ten cents for each one… _Dammit_. He should have kept them. On the other hand, if Steve sees how many he drank already he’ll throw a fit. He’s always been scarier than Bucky’s parents, even before they passed.

The last block seems longer; it stretches on the more he walks forward. He may never get to the front door of the building. The streetlights seem to flicker and sway as he approaches his building. The stairs turn into moving carpets, speeding underneath his feet. Eventually, he makes it up them, with two half-empty beer bottles still in his possession. He knocks on the neighbour’s door first by accident. She opens with a glare and points him down the hall.

“Sorry,” he slurs, holding a finger up to his mouth. She has two kids who have school tomorrow.

He knocks on what he hopes is the right door. Steve swings the door open, a wide smile on his face that quickly falls into something angry and dangerous. “Why are you drunk?”

Bucky shakes his head. “M’not.” Even sober he’s terrible at lying; he doesn’t know why he tries.

“James Buchanan Barnes, get in here right now. You have work tomorrow morning or did you forget?” Steve’s eyes seem almost crimson he’s so mad, his hands on his hips.

For some reason, he mimics Steve, and then giggles out, “I forgot.”

Steve sighs. “I guess you really thought you’d win this time.”

Bucky touches his own nose with his index finger then Steve’s. He passes out with big, familiar arms dragging him into his bedroom. Warmth all around him soothing enough to forget the loss of another open mic night.

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hangover hits.

There’s a piece of something stuck to Bucky’s tongue; it feels like tape and tastes like dirty anus. Not that he knows what a dirty anus tastes like. He only indulges in the cleanest of them. Moving on. He realizes, stupidly long after the fact, that the taste is actually his tongue. It’s what happens when you drink ten beers within an hour, and then pass out without brushing your teeth. Luckily, Steve removed his shoes for him. His pants too. Maybe even his t-shirt. He touches his chest and feels thin cotton.

His alarm goes off. Bells and whistles and dog barks fill his room like a noise factory. He slams his fist down against his clock and hopes he didn’t break it. Opening one eye, Bucky looks over at it. There’s an imprint of his fist. Now he definitely needs to get his ass to work and make some money. New alarm required (as well as paying bills and not leaving Steve to do that on his own).

With a hint of magic, Bucky leaps out of bed, opens his bedroom door, strips out of his clothes and gets into a decently warm shower – all with his eyes still closed. Unfortunately, Steve is yelling outside the bathroom door, “You can’t just strip in the hall! What if I had guests over?”

They never have guests. He’s just jealous of Bucky’s sleepwalking skills and killer booty. He sings in the shower, comes up with most of his lyrics that way actually. That possibly may explain why they’re always about sex since he’s soaping up his naked body and sporting morning wood. He would never admit it, but he misses when he and Steve used to take baths together. It was relaxing. Steve could get all the hard to reach places, like that spot between his shoulder blades that requires contortion. He can’t get it himself anymore, especially not hungover.

Within ten minutes, he’s showered and dressed. Squeaky clean. His mouth tastes more like mint and less like dirty anus. He pops out of the bathroom, winking at Steve who’s waiting for his turn in the bathroom. He has classes to get to. Bucky purposely blocks the doorway, gyrating his hips in all directions. Steve bulldozes him over and kicks him out in two seconds flat. It nearly breaks his heart. Nearly. Until he sees the omelette and coffee Steve made for him, still warm and delicious.

Bucky leaves his uniform at work so when he gets there he can just slip in and out of it and not forget it on days like this when his higher brain function is on vacation. It’s a perfect system. He leaves Steve a goodbye note, which simply reads “c u l8er.” Bucky knows how much he hates chat speech.

Off he goes into the land of coffee and disgruntled clients. At least he has a few coworkers there who enjoy his songs; they let him sing _Big Boobs_ during breaks. Clint – a middle aged, retired operative agent (or so he says) - is the happiest during his sleazy performances, clapping and howling with laughter. It may be part of why he expects everyone else on the street to enjoy his music; his coworkers are as insane as he is. In the best way possible. With them around, six or even eight hours go by in a flash. Sometimes their boss, Maria Hill, is even nice enough to get his uniform dry-cleaned for him.

 

\---

 

Bucky’s feet are dragging even more than the night before as he makes his way home from work. One of the customers thought he was leering at her, when he was actually winking at Thor who decided to visit him, and threw her cup of coffee against his chest. At least she was nice enough to avoid his face. He needs that – for his music. Maria saw it all happen, gave the customer a free drink which she made herself (and probably spat in), and took Bucky’s uniform and apron to be cleaned. She patted him on the back with a soft, “Leave early. I’ll pay for the missing hour.”

So he did.

He can use the extra hour to think up new lyrics for the next open mic. He might not win over Thor’s brother, but Sam’s bar doesn’t have as strict judges – though the prize money is lower too. Still, three hundred bucks could help them out. Bucky has the key in one hand and some free coffee in his other hand. He’s allowed to bring home two cups per week, and he takes advantage of it every time.

Bucky kicks the door open, pushing it closed the same way. “Steve, I have some coffee—”

There’s a redhead with a grin on her face, prodding at Steve’s chest. They’re both seated on the couch, her knees bumping against the side of Steve’s thigh. They look at Bucky, smiling. Steve taps her leg and stands up to grab the coffees. “Thanks,” he says. “You’re back early.”

Bucky drops his jacket on the back of the kitchen chair, eyeing them both warily. “Mmhm. Am I interrupting something?” Like _sex_. Were they going to have sex on _their_ couch? Their living room couch where Bucky sometimes passes out drunk on weekends.

“No, not at all.” Steve gestures at the redhead. “This is Natasha by the way. She’s in my sculpting class. We have a project to do together.”

“Yeah, I bet. You probably want to sculpt her real good,” Bucky says under his breath.

“Excuse me?” she asks, standing from the couch. Her jeans are practically painted on they’re so tight. She’s wearing a white blouse that’s meant to hide her breasts but instead accentuates them. She’s a sculptor’s dream, no wonder Steve chose her as his partner. Hell, Bucky would follow her around like a puppy dog. Ooh! That could be a new song. _I’m following my gal/ she got me on a leash/ I’m her puppy dog/ I don’t need no release._ That’s not bad; that could work. This could actually work. A muse! That’s what he’s been needing all along. Every great artist has one. Steve won’t mind if they share the same one, will he?

“Bucky, you’re being rude.” Steve crosses his arms over his chest.

“What? Sorry.” Bucky stands up, offering his hand to Natasha. “Nice to meet you.” He gives her his best sultry look, even kisses the top of her hand.

She smirks, but her eyes say she’s too sharp to fall for any of his tricks. “You weren’t kidding, Steve.”

Steve laughs, his posture loosening. A smug smile spreads across his face. “Told you he’s a charmer.”

“A real snake charmer,” she adds at the same time that Bucky says with faux innocence, “Who _me_?”

She pulls her hand away slowly. “I’ll be passing by a few more times. Hope you don’t mind. The project is due in a couple weeks.”

“No, not at all. I’ll be working and writing songs anyway.” He smiles at her, winks at Steve. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

 

\---

 

They’re giggling. He officially hates them both. Steve slightly less because he’s really good at back massages and making coffee. This is the most inopportune moment to realize how paper-thin the walls in their apartment is – not that there was any doubt it was partly a shithole. Between the running-crying children that bang on their door, the robberies that occurred a few doors down, the heater that sometimes needs to be kicked to get started up, and the landlord who only shows his face for rent, it all points to a less than suitable living space.

But that’s not what’s important! What matters now is Natasha is the female embodiment of Athena, and Steve is hogging her all to himself. Bucky thought bros shared muses. Steve is too busy getting cuddly in his room with her, probably staring down her cleavage (Bucky would), and letting her touch his thighs, his biceps, his abs, his perfectly sculpted chin; he’s got a lovely chin… Wait.

Bucky sits up in bed, knocking the book he had on his lap to the floor. Steve calls out, “Everything okay? Are we being too noisy?”

The only reason Bucky doesn’t tell them to keep it down is because he’s just had an epiphany, and not one he expected to be about his best friend. He’s scrubbing his forehead, his eyes squeezed tight against his own thoughts. “It’s fine. Do your thing.”

There’s a brief pause. Then Natasha says, “’Kay, thanks.” He can almost hear her shrug of confusion. Even _he_ doesn’t know what the fuck ‘do your thing’ means in this context. His brain is frying. Fried. Goddamn epiphany!

In less than an hour, he’s simultaneously liked and disliked Natasha, and also realized it’s because he’s in love with Steve. Somehow, in spite of knowing him even before puberty, Bucky never understood why his best friend meant so much. Why he always needed him in his life. Close, and then closer – becoming roommates. They’re practically married, just without the fun sex that goes with it. Oh, god! Sex! Steve could be over there with Natasha, bumping uglies as Bucky clutches the front of his shirt like a woman clutching pearls. If this were a novel, he wouldn’t read it. But here he is, having to live this putrid, puppy love bullshit. When did he become such a freakin’ sap?

Suddenly, it’s imperative that he glue his ear to the wall. The paper-thin-ness is necessary; he needs to know if sex is happening and how good it is. Maybe he could do better. Bucky’s met with nothing but murmurs, sometimes a laugh or two, the splat of clay hitting paper. Nothing X-rated as of yet. They might just be friends. It can still be okay…

Who is he kidding? He even said himself that Natasha is a goddess. Why would any sexually active young man turn a woman like that down when she’s leaning into you and clearly happy to have your company? Bucky knocks his head a couple times against the wall.

“Buck? You okay?” asks Steve.

“Fine!” He rubs at his head. “Just, um, moving some stuff around.”

“Be careful,” says Steve. Natasha chuckles in the background, then Steve says, “Stop that.” But he doesn’t mean it. It’s his playful voice; the one he uses on Bucky when he starts teasing him about being too mushy.

It used to be _him_. Now he has Natasha. Now he won’t need Bucky as much. They’re married without the sex. Natasha can give him sex. He hasn’t been. All these years, there could have been penis action, maybe. There wasn’t any! Steve must be so disappointed in him. Bucky buries himself in his pillow, legs flopping and arms flailing. If he could drown in the sheets, he’d want to right now. Just to lose this feeling of hopelessness.

Maybe it’s nothing. He’s overreacting. Steve would never replace him. When he leaves his room to pee, he notices both cups of coffee from his shop are empty. Steve took his and gave it to Natasha. He throws them in the garbage instead of in the recycling like Steve usually asks of him, and goes to bed without eating supper. He doesn’t want to see her enjoying Steve’s cooking too.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the muse is...angry?

At work, Maria tells him to suck it up. He ignores her and writes song lyrics on napkins when there aren’t any customers.

 

_My baby doesn’t want me_

_Doesn’t need me anymore_

_I feel like I’m a stranger_

_Inside my own home_

 

 

Clint quickly glances over as he’s cleaning out a pot for decaffeinated coffee. “That’s heavy, dude. What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing.” Bucky turns the napkin over.

 

_I have no heart_

_Same with my soul_

_Never made much money_

_But I had you before_

 

 

Clint glances over again, despite Bucky quietly seething at him when he does it. “That’s not nothing. You can tell me, you know. I’ll hear you out.”

“No thanks,” grinds Bucky. A customer appears in front of him while he’s writing the next few lines, and he puts a finger up for her to wait. When he’s done, he says, “What do you want?” He gets sent home early, without pay this time. It doesn’t matter. He has a new song for the next open mic. He won’t need this shit job anymore.

 

\---

 

Natasha is there again. She is sitting in his spot at the kitchen table, drinking Steve’s homemade coffee, and getting her shoulders rubbed. “Mmm. Why are you so good at this?”

Steve chuckles. “I had a lot of practice.”

Bucky pushes the door shut loudly so they know he’s home. Steve says hi; he mutters hi back. Natasha says hi, and he sighs. He gives her some vague hand movement to appease Steve since Bucky knows he’ll be upset if he doesn’t greet his ‘partner.’ He leaves them both behind, rushing into his bedroom. He bought fast-food on the way home – just to spite Steve. He hates him eating junk or drinking too much. On the plus side, it keeps him from needing to go into the kitchen again.

A few hours later, when Natasha and Steve leave the kitchen, Bucky sneaks out for some coffee. He has so many songs he wants to write; he just needs to stay up to do it. He doesn’t have work tomorrow until the afternoon anyway. Open mic is coming up in a few days.

The coffee is horrible without Steve’s touch to make it amazing. He’s awful at anything that requires more than sugar and milk. But the bitterness of the coffee reflects his inner feelings so it’s all good. He’ll cope. He’ll write his songs, get on that stage and win some freakin’ money for once.

 

_I can’t take seeing you_

_Touching them, needing them_

_More than you need me_

_Because I realize now_

_You’re all I see_

_In all my dreams_

 

\---

 

Bucky leaves a flyer for the open mic of Sam’s bar at their apartment, only because he promised he’d tell Steve when the next one was. Maybe also because he wants him to be a witness to the moment when he reaches greatness. Everyone else will see but it won’t have as much impact as the one who saw him when he was lower than lowest.

Steve has it with him when he reaches the bar. Bucky’s set up on stage, tweaking the strings on his guitar just to get them perfect. It needs to be magic. This needs to change everything. If he does it right, Steve might realize how much he means to him after all.

Sam Wilson, the bar owner, swaggers onto stage in his leather jacket and jeans. The crowd howls at him, clapping and cheering. He laughs and says, “Settle down, guys. Tonight’s not about me.” Then he presents Bucky with, “My good friend, Barnes here, has some new treats for us. Don’t forget to vote for the artist you like the most at the end of the evening.”

Bucky counts down from three softly for the house-band – who he asked to help with some simple background percussion – and he sings out his first line, acapella:

 

_My breath is stuck between my neck and my chest_

_Seeing you, seeing you, seeing you, seeing red_

 

He spent the entire night memorizing the lyrics he wrote, which wasn’t hard when that’s all he has to focus on nowadays. Steve leaves him mostly to his own devices; too busy working on sculpting with Natasha. And giggling. And massaging her.

Bucky’s voice cracks at a few moments; the crowd clapping and weeping along with him. In his words, he sees years of friendship dissolving. He didn’t think it would hurt so much to be this naked, but it does. And it’s worse because Steve is in the crowd, smiling, until he isn’t. Then he’s up and leaving, pushing through the roar of the bar patrons that are screaming for an encore as Bucky belts out the last “ _seeing you, seeing you, seeing you, seeing red_.” Then his string breaks out again, and he can’t help but laugh with relief. It never usually waits until the end of the performance to misbehave.

Other artists perform after him, some much better singers, but he wins. He can barely speak he’s so surprised about winning. He thought he would, many times, it just never came true before. Bucky’s so overwhelmed by his emotions he just croaks out, “Thanks,” and leaves the crowd clapping long after he’s off stage. It’s a smaller prize because there’s another in a week for the semi-finals. It’s enough money to put cash down on his next guitar though.

 

\---

 

The walk home is almost as long as when he was drunk on Thor’s free beer. This time, he’s high off his win; he’s floating on a bout of happiness. He walks as if on a tightrope, in a straight line, a bounce in each step. His cloud can’t be brought down by even the rainstorm in his apartment. Natasha could be drinking a whole jug of coffee and he’d shrug. Speaking of which, that was rude of Steve to leave before him. They usually walk home together. He didn’t even wait until the end of the song. He didn’t get to see that he won. Bucky has no witness now for his road to greatness.

Before Bucky walks through the door, he can feel the tension. Steve is at his canvas, slapping red and black paint at it with his hands. He closes the door quietly behind him, hoping to sneak by without dealing with whatever’s brewing. Steve whips around, letting paint splash across the wood of their floor, his hands balled into fists at his sides. “Hey, _Buck_ , welcome home.” He smiles without happiness, teeth sharp and white.

“Uh, hi?” says Bucky. “I’m just gonna—” He points to his room.

“Oh, sure. No problem. You must be tired from all the praise you got from your new song.” He jerks back to his canvas, his shoulders tight and making him look hunched. He slaps the rest of the paint on his hands against the white, mixing until there’s nothing but black left.

“O-kay…Are you mad?” He’s careful as he approaches; Steve doesn’t usually resort to sarcasm.

Steve doesn’t look at him. “Why would I be mad?” he grits.

“You’re practically tearing a hole in your canvas there, Steve.” Bucky lingers behind him, not touching in case he lashes out.

Steve groans, scrubbing his hands against the splattered canvas until his fingers dig through and end up on the other side completely. Wood and all is nothing but clouds in the face of Steve’s frustration – whatever it may be caused by. Bucky takes a step back. “I’ll just leave you to…that.”

In his room, he locks the door in case Steve decides to break in and pummel him. He wouldn’t strike it off as a possibility. Once in his room, he hears Steve swearing and growling to the high heavens – until their upstairs neighbour, Mrs. Mortimer, finally bangs with her cane. She is 85 years old after all. Bucky stares at the ceiling, imagining what it sounds like to the rest of the building. A wild animal maybe. A man with anger issues. Someone who is unhappy with life.

Slowly, his thoughts drift from out there to inside his bedroom. Inside where he should be celebrating but is instead hiding because his roommate/best friend is acting like a complete tornado of rage. He could be cheering Bucky on, could have stayed and walked with him, applauded him and hugged him. He could act like a best friend and say he’s proud that he finally made a big step forward. Instead Steve’s here, wasting paint (and money) and mad at Bucky because – because – hell, because he’s jealous! He’s goddamn jealous that Bucky finally made a breakthrough and he’s still in school, still at the learning stage, one step behind. He can’t even be there for Bucky now that he’s moving forward, the jerk.

He falls asleep with a lot of anger that he didn’t think he would have against, considering he just won a competition and could be the next open mic winner at Thor’s bar – if the song is as good as Sam’s bar made it appear.

The next day, early morning, Natasha is at the apartment as he’s slipping out of the bathroom to do the ritual of the day. Once he’s done showering, jerking through the morning wood that he wishes wouldn’t show up when he’s also frustrated with his best friend, he heads into the kitchen. They’re both sitting. Natasha says hi, and Bucky makes sure to be extra sweet when speaking to her. If this is how Steve wants to play – jealous and rude – then he’s going to be nicer to Natasha than he’s ever been, right in front of Steve, so he can see what actual charm is. Normally, he wouldn’t have bothered, but there’s only enough coffee in the pot for the two of them. Steve knows his schedule; knows he usually walks him to class and then goes to work, since he begins slightly later. There’s none for him, though. As he’s making himself some instant coffee, he tells Natasha, “I like that shirt, very nice colour on you.”

She smiles, looking down, then up at Bucky with a smirk. There’s a lot of cleavage showing and she probably realizes. Steve knows it too. His eyes narrow; Bucky has told him before that complimenting a specific piece of clothing meant he was actually talking about that body part. He abruptly tugs Natasha up from the table, holding her wrist. “We should get going, a lot to study together.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, stirring his coffee loudly through the rest of Steve’s infuriating rib. They leave and he heaves out a sigh. His head’s already hurting and the workday hasn’t even begun yet. What a great way to get up in the morning.

 

\---

 

In the evening, Bucky’s eyes are burning from steam from coffee pots. There was an event nearby and all of the attendees wanted some form of hot beverage. Maria let him slip out into the back alley for some crisp air once in a while, taking pity on him – especially since he’s having a rough time with his best friend, soon-to-be frenemy. Clint listens to him all day – or pretends to; he’s very good at poker faces – patting him on the back by the end of his rant about Steve being a jerk and dating Natasha. He walks him home, their shoulders brushing. The cold is tolerable with Clint by his side, making dirty jokes and pointing out anything that could be innuendo. When they reach Bucky’s apartment, he figures what the hell. “You wanna come up? I can make us some supper or some drinks.”

“Yeah, sure. Seems like you need someone to hang with since your husband is cheating.” He laughs too loudly for Bucky’s taste.

Natasha is in the apartment again, posing for Steve’s canvas this time. Her top is unbuttoned, the curve of her breasts impossible to ignore with how they’re barely covered by the fabric of her aqua vest. The bra underneath is black, lace, silky against her slightly tanned skin. Bucky hates her for making him feel any emotion other than pure hate. She is absolutely gorgeous under the lights they installed for Steve’s artwork; her skin healthy and clear. Her legs are crossed under her, her arms holding her up as she leans back against their wall.

Clint claps, whistling with two fingers in his mouth. “Nat, honey, I wish you posed like this all the time.” He turns to Bucky, nudging him with a whispered, “You didn’t tell me this perfect woman was your loverboy’s playdate. I’ve known her _forever_.”

Bucky doesn’t know why that makes his blood erupt through his veins like lava. He’s boiling, his skin itching so much he wants to rip it off and walk around with nothing but his bones. Clint takes a step towards Natasha, nodding at Steve, and Bucky explodes. “Get. Out.”

“What? I thought you wanted—”

With the slightest amount of care, Bucky grabs Clint’s arm and ushers him into the hall. “Bye,” he says, slamming the door in his face. He’s supposed to be on his side, not encouraging Steve to be with Natasha. Not flirting with the both of them. She’s not even supposed to be here!

Steve looks flustered, then confused. Bucky takes a long look at Natasha, feels himself throb against his will, and rushes into his bedroom. He doesn’t come out until the next morning. If they can’t play fair, then he doesn’t want to be involved anymore. He’ll just focus on his career, the next open mic nights – three more coming this week anyway.

 

\---

 

Bucky doesn’t invite Steve to any of his performances. He’s terrible support lately anyway, too busy unbuttoning Natasha’s shirt and pitying himself probably. What frustrates Bucky most is he can’t be angry with her; she’s such a cool person. She’s gorgeous too, exactly his type. Apparently, she’s also Steve’s type. They cuddle in the living room, hogging the only TV, watching comedies that Steve would usually watch with Bucky. She stretches her legs out across Steve’s lap, wiggling her painted toes. He massages her feet distractedly, craning his neck when he hears Bucky come out of his bedroom. “I didn’t make supper,” he says, and nothing else.

It’s not worth responding. Bucky orders takeout with his prize money. He goes to the open mic two days later, his hands trembling with nervousness but the good kind. Clint is there, despite the little outburst he had. And he claps as soon as Bucky is announced. Thor is in the back, giving him two thumbs up and a great, big smile.

It’s just him and his guitar this time, a rasp in his voice from practicing all day at work. All night in his dreams as well. He starts, nothing but his words, his whole heart out on the stage:

_My breath is stuck between my neck and my chest_

_Seeing you, seeing you, seeing you, seeing red_

 

Then the music kicks in, his feet start banging with the rhythm, his fingertips burning from strumming this song so many times, but he keeps going. He gasps and shouts, weeps out the words, his heart beating so fast it could explode. By the end, his face is wet with tears. He’s spent. He let the emotion flow and now there’s none left. There’s a beat of absolute silence, only the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears. Then, with a few glances around, there’s a roar of cheers – nothing but applause for long minutes. Thor is standing, laughing over everyone else with his big voice.

Clint whistles for him like he had for Natasha, swinging his sweater around over his head like a flag of victory. Bucky sighs with relief; he’s done it. He’s succeeded. They liked it here too. He’ll be okay. The judges are whispering, but Bucky doesn’t see Loki among them. He can actually win this time. He bows and gets off the stage.

 

\---

 

A free 12-pack of beer under his arm, Bucky brings it home full purposely to irritate Steve. Except, it doesn’t work because he’s busy painting Natasha again. This time, she has her arms above her head, her back arched and her eyes closed. She’s in a lovely red dress that covers her toes but not her curves. From over Steve’s shoulder, Bucky can see that it’s almost done. He’s been at it for hours probably.

“Want a beer for when you’re done?” asks Bucky. He waggles said beer when she opens her eyes.

Steve shakes his head. “No, thanks.”

“Wasn’t talking to you,” he barks back. He puts a bottle down for Natasha and goes into his room, patting the back pocket of his jeans. A cheque for 500$ that he can put into his account in the morning before work. Almost enough to get a guitar that will cooperate.

He gets to be in semi-finals of both Sam and Thor’s bars. All he has to do now is write some more good material. Five beers later, and Bucky passes out, still smiling from his win.

 

\---

 

Morning brings a hangover but also hope. Not to mention morning wood. An awkward boner that he can’t seem to get rid of in the shower. When he goes for the kitchen to make lunch, eat some breakfast, Natasha is leaning against the fridge. She rakes her eyes down his body, and he almost wants to cover his bulge. Almost. He doesn’t because Steve is watching closely. They glance at each other, and he leans in and pecks her on the cheek. “Morning, beautiful. Mind scooting over so I can make some breakfast?”

She steps to the side, closer to Steve. He pulls her in, wrapping his arms around her body. He whispers something in her ear, and she bumps him with the top of her head. All she can reach is his chin though. He says something else, and Bucky pretends he isn’t interested in what it could be that makes her blush.

He leaves and goes to work, doesn’t come home when he’s done. He has to be somewhere where he can think and be productive. He has songs to write, competitions to win. He’s not giving up on his dream because Steve isn’t backing him up anymore.

 

\---

 

At the coffee shop, Maria leans against the counter, eyeballing him. Her lips pucker. “So, I hear you write songs.”

Bucky scribbles a line down on a napkin. He scratches a line through it. “Yep.”

“At work, no less,” she continues.

“Mm-hmm,” agrees Bucky. He looks up briefly, checking to see if any customers need help. No one seems to. He looks back down at his napkin. _The walk here is longer than ever, the shop is dead. I take my time coming home, force myself to bed. All I want is to hear your laugh, ringing in my ears instead._ He grumbles, crumpling the napkin and collapsing against the counter, his face hidden under his brown hair.

Maria takes it, reading it. “Not bad, but I think your lines are too long. Songs are about being brief and emotional. Like poetry.”

Bucky sighs; she’s right. He’s not feeling it. When he wrote the other song, he had just finished an argument with Steve and the emotions were bursting out of him. Now he’s just…dealing with it. They aren’t fighting, they aren’t even speaking. Someone once said the only thing worse than hatred was apathy, and they’re absolutely right. He needs to use Steve's muse. Natasha’s always at the house anyway.

 

\---

 

The walk home is chilly, brisk. He has just enough time for his cheeks to turn pink, his fingers to tingle from the cold, before he gets inside their building. He wonders if one day he’ll come back and they’ll be at it – on the sofa, at the kitchen table, maybe in Bucky’s bed to spite him. It hasn’t happened yet.

For as much as Steve seems to be dating Natasha, he hasn’t seen them kiss once. At least they have the decency not to do that in front of him, on top of everything else.

Bucky touches the door, and stops. He and Steve barely speak anymore. He buys his own groceries, and eats breakfast at work or at a local breakfast joint. Suppers are eaten either in his room or at fast food restaurants. In the morning, Steve’s already done his morning ritual so he doesn’t cross Bucky’s path. At night, with sleep rituals, they don’t make eye contact. Natasha’s presence is a constant; Bucky has gotten used to the rasp in her voice, and the fluidity with which she walks around their apartment. He’s not mad at her; he’s jealous. She’s an interesting person. Definitely cooler than what Steve deserves. But she chose him, for whatever reason, and Bucky can’t do a thing. If he didn’t have his music, he doesn’t know if he could even stay in this building anymore.

Nowadays, he’s careful not to make a sound as he enters so he can sneak into his room if he’s feeling particularly grumpy and unwelcome. He does that now: slithers inside, closes the door, and when he turns back, well –

The brown bag in his grasp – leftover muffins from work – crumples when he finds Natasha behind the canvas this time. Steve is in a mirror of the pose that he had seen her in not long ago. His arms are above his head, a tie dangling crooked around his neck, a white dress shirt on that’s open to the middle of his chest, and his hips jutting forward. The dark slacks leave nothing to the imagination as is, but with the zipper undone, Bucky thinks his heart stops for longer than is healthy. For some reason, Steve’s bare feet are what make this picture really filthy.

Maybe Bucky got it all wrong; maybe Steve is Natasha’s muse. God knows Bucky has been following him around like a dog with a bone for years.

Bucky swallows with an audible click; thankfully, Steve doesn’t open his eyes. Natasha turns when she hears him swallow, her paintbrush dipped in navy for Steve’s pants. They make eye contact like they have dozens of times before, but this time it’s different. He has to look away from the serious look she gives him, a slight frown tugging at her full lips. Her usual grin is missing. Her playful gaze and smile that she offers when he winks don’t show up. She puts her paintbrush down against the palette and watches him with a soft stare, as if wanting to tell him something. With a glance up at her furrowed brows, he knows she’s seen too much. He drops the leftovers on the kitchen table, rushing into his room for sanctuary. His heart pounds with every long stride there. The door closes, he locks it, and presses a hand against his chest, holding his heart in – just in case.

Natasha knows. She knows, and it’s all his fault. She looked…upset. _For_ him.

Bucky falls back against his mattress, staring up at the ceiling. Steve in his debauched outfit circles his mind for hours, and hours, and hours. His fingers twitch in the air, writing lyrics on each bated breath, dotting the gasps and crossing the blinking of his eyes. He can see the words floating alongside Steve in his head. The sky goes dark, his room loses its light, but he can still see how Steve looked in the living room; he can still remember every lyric he’s writing about him. As his stomach growls, he ignores it and reaches for his cellphone. He types the lyrics up in notes, sometimes rubbing at his eyes when sleep creeps up on him.

Light returns to his room as he’s finishing up the last verse of a song he hasn’t put together yet; he hasn’t slept a wink. Natasha wouldn’t purposely ruin his life, he knows, but she might tell Steve out of a sense of duty. If that’s the case, he may need to move out sooner than he wanted. Good thing he’s in the semi-finals of both open mics.

A yawn makes his jaw crack, and he thanks the skies that he has a day off to catch up on sleep.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> moving out

If only Bucky’s inspiration would let him sleep…

In the morning, he’s groggy and annoyed but accomplished. He has at least ten drafts of song lyrics he can use for the semi-finals coming up this weekend. While brushing his teeth, he considers chopping off an inch of hair. Considers it, thinks better of it. Not only does it suit his purpose as a bleeding heart, but he knows it irritates Steve to no end – back when they were speaking. Now with their wall of silence, Steve only makes grimaces at him when he shuffles past him to get his turn in the bathroom. The grumpy, old man grunt and sneer is more satisfying than if he vocalized his annoyance; if Steve breaks first and complains, Bucky wins. And they’d finally be talking again so win-win.

Natasha’s body is hidden under a pile of blankets on the living room sofa; only her hand is peeking out, and the tips of her fingers are still covered in paint. She must have been working on the painting all night. Bucky carefully walks over and tucks the blanket over her more tightly. The sun is bright enough to make even her decide to massacre a city.

When Bucky turns to make some toast and coffee, he walks into Steve, frowning from one end to the next. He’s holding coffee in a heart-covered mug; he places it on the coffee table in front of where Natasha is sleeping. That used to be the mug Steve would give Bucky to tease him. With a loud huff, he bumps the table and it spills on their wood floor.

“Hey!” calls Steve as Bucky goes into the kitchen. “You better clean this up.”

“Oh, are we on speaking terms now?” he asks. He lowers his voice when he remembers Natasha’s sleeping.

Steve glances from her to Bucky, deciding whatever he wanted to say next isn’t worth waking her either. He sits in the sofa and turns on the TV, putting his feet up on the coffee table. Bucky stares, mouth agape. Not only is the jerk sitting in his spot, but he’s leaving the coffee there – something he’s never done – and pretending nothing’s wrong. This is too much. Bucky growls out, “Be that way, punk!” and throws the cup with the instant coffee in the sink, leaving his toast to burn in the toaster.

The air outside is merciless; the sun means nothing but lies. As soon as he’s down the street, near one of his corners, his fingers twitch. He wants to play something, anything. His fingers tingle with chords (and from the cold), but he didn’t bring his guitar in his rush. Time for the next best thing: Sam’s bar.

 

\----

 

Sam is a kick-ass musician, but he prefers drums to guitar – though he owns both. He’s in his office, behind the bar, looking through numbers for the upcoming tax season; he doesn’t seem displeased with his business. Bucky twines his hands behind his back, pushing hair out of his eyes when it obscures his vision of Sam’s expression. He only lets Bucky use his guitar – a beautiful, expensive, red Gibson – when he’s in a decent mood.

Sam glances up at him, shaking his head with a smile. Bucky may be in business. He sighs, putting his papers aside. “You’re lucky I like you, man.”

“You’ll let me use it? I promise it won’t be long. I just have a few songs I wanna test out and I don’t feel like going back to my apartment,” explains Bucky, leaning both elbows on Sam’s desk. He says, lower, “Me and Steve are having some problems.”

“That so? Well, guess I can help you out. I know what it’s like to have a couple’s feud.” He grins, standing to get the guitar in its case.

Bucky sputters, crossing his arms. “We aren’t dating!”

“Coulda fooled me,” murmurs Sam.

If he didn’t need to use Sam’s guitar so much, he would have told him off for that.

“Also, are you wearing your pajamas?” asks Sam.

 

\---

 

Hours later, Natasha and Steve are still lounging in the living room. Bucky rolls his eyes from here to kingdom come, walking in with his green plaid pajama pants and big clunky brown boots.

Bucky overhears Natasha whispering to Steve, “You have to do something about it.” She holds his face very close, her back to Bucky. Steve looks solemn, and doesn’t look up at her. He shakes his head. Slowly, she presses her forehead to Steve’s and whispers his name.

Steve drags her close, burying his face in her shoulder. She strokes his hair back, combing through the dirty-blond locks. Bucky wants no part of any of this. He went out to overcome his anger, and is greeted with even more bullshit thrown in his face.

This time, he doesn’t stay silent. He grabs his guitar, slings it over his shoulder, changes into jeans, slicks his hair back with some water, slams the bathroom door, stomps around them and their staring eyes, shows both of them the finger as he’s backing out of the apartment, and slams that door too.

“Wait!” He hears from inside the apartment; it’s Steve’s voice. But he’s tired of tiptoeing around him, making nice with his girlfriend when all he wants is to be in her place. He’s tired of living somewhere he isn’t wanted. Maybe it’s time he get his own place. All he has to do is win the semi-finals in Sam and Thor’s bars.

The neighbour down the hall peeks out of her apartment, throwing him a glare. He salutes her, then rolls his eyes when he’s far enough away.

 

\---

 

Bucky ends up at his job, even though he has the day off. He bothers Clint as he makes overcomplicated coffees: telling him wrong client names, wrong order details, saying numbers while he’s trying to calculate prices – all in good fun. The customers seem to get a kick out of it. By the end of the day, Clint is immune to Bucky’s tactics and he spends his time spinning in Maria’s chair, since she’s gone for the day. There are only students left anyway, what do they care.

As Clint’s closing up, he finally breaks. “What’s with you? I’m pretty sure I didn’t give birth to you.”

“Yeah, the whole dick thing should clue you in.” Bucky raises a brow, smiling. “I just – I don’t wanna go back to my place. Can I crash at yours for a night or two?”

“Is that all this was? I got scared you were courting me for a second,” he says, pulling his apron off and hanging it on a hook.

Bucky blows a raspberry. “You wish you were that lucky.”

“I don’t, actually. You’re too much work for me.” He scrubs through his short hair. “Yeah, okay. Follow me, Buck.”

 

\---

 

Clint lives in a condo. It would be impressive except that he lives in a condo an hour and a half away from anything of value. No one wants to live so far out of the city when they have to work in it and don’t own a car. By the time they get to Clint’s condo, Bucky is too drained to voice his awe at the marble counters or carpeted floors. He just passes out, right against the living room rug which is sinfully soft. Softer than any bed he’s owned. Clint leaves him be; he’s cool like that. He curls up on his leather sofa.

Too bad Clint’s an insomniac who binges on junk food and plays video games about hunting with the use of a bow. The sound of him drawing the arrow is so loud that Bucky wakes as if electrocuted, his limbs not responding to the signals from his brain as he shakes all over for a good thirty seconds. Clint laughs for five minutes before he finally chokes on his spit and stops. Even then, he’s still wiping the tears from his eyes, a grin on his face.

Bucky glares with the support of three generation of ancestors.

Clint puts his arms up, placating. “Want some pizza?” he offers.

“What kind?”

Clint opens a box he has precariously placed on the edge of his coffee table. “I have some Meat Fest left.”

“Give it here,” he says, falling into the leather sofa next to Clint.

“You would like it, wouldn’t you?” he mutters.

Bucky stuffs his mouth full of the first slice. “Don’t make gay jokes when you’re the one who ordered it, dude.”

“Fair enough,” replies Clint, his mouth just as full.

 

\---

 

Clint falls asleep at five in the morning; Bucky is wide awake from his nap. He paces, and paces. He writes songs in a notepad he brought with him, then uses some loose sheets he finds in Clint’s office – it’s insane that he even has an office. What does he do to afford this place? Bucky’s not sure he wants to know.

When birds start chirping too loud for Bucky to concentrate, he rushes into Clint’s bedroom. He sleeps in the nude. Without blankets. Bucky sighs, averting his eyes. “Clint,” he says softly.

Clint snuffles out some alien sound.

“Clint, wake up.”

His body wiggles against the wide bed – not that Bucky looks away from the ceiling to know for certain. “Wake up!”

Clint jumps, standing at attention in more than one way. Bucky groans, swatting the whole image away with a hand. “Can you come with me to my place?”

“Couldn’t you have waited ‘til I was up?”

“You seem pretty up to me,” growls Bucky, gesturing to the morning wood. “Besides, I have a shift later. I need to go now.”

“All right, all right.” Clint sits crossed leg on his bed, his eyes drooping. “Just give me a minute.”

A minute turns into an hour; he falls asleep sitting up. Bucky waits outside of his room, playing the same loud archery game, and turning it up by increments. Eventually, Clint steps out with more than his birthday suit and nods at Bucky.

“Get ready,” he tells Bucky with narrowed eyes.

 

\---

 

The truth is, Bucky has no idea what the state of the apartment will be like when he gets there. For all he knows, his stuff will be thrown outside and the neighbour will have helped. Natasha might be sleeping in his bed, drinking from his raccoon cup, wearing his clothes, using his hair ties…

“You realize you’re saying this aloud?” asks Clint.

Bucky looks around the bus; people are staring. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Also, Nat would never do that to you. She’d talk to you first.”

It’s weird that he forgot they knew each other. Bucky side-eyes Clint. “How do you know her?” Maybe they dated – or _are_ dating.

“An old friend from …let’s just say the military. I trained her,” he finishes with a smile. “She’s one of the best people around.”

“Uh-huh.”

Clint elbows him. “Don’t be like that. She really is a nice person. You should get to know her. I’m sure she could help with your whole awkward apartment business.”

“I think she’s helping enough as it is.” Bucky looks away.

 

\---

 

Something about escaping his apartment, waking up to archery sounds, and seeing a co-worker sleeping naked has made Bucky lose track of time. In fact, hours to be more precise. His shift is in an hour, and Steve is back from class to boot. Back, and accompanied by his favourite gal pal. He can hear them talking through the front door.

Clint pushes inside the apartment first – because Bucky asks him to – and he immediately makes his way to Natasha. They hug for an absurdly long time, rocking slowly. When they pull away, they’re both kind of red in the face. Bucky raises a brow at Clint; he coughs and looks over at Steve, nodding a hello.

“Hey,” says Steve.

Bucky uses that moment to hurry to his room. There are footsteps trailing behind him, so he stuffs whatever he can get his hands on into a duffel bag: shoes, pants, briefs, guitar picks, and his unedited lyrics.

“It’s not what you think,” says Natasha.

At least it isn’t Steve. Even so, it should be. He always fights his own battles – except now, when it involves Bucky. Is he not worth fighting for? A random bully in the road gets more of Steve’s stubbornness than Bucky has in the past two weeks.

Bucky faces her, putting his bag over his shoulder. “Then he should tell me himself.” He brushes past her, and she follows trying to grab his arm.

Clint’s eyes light up when Natasha goes into the living room with Bucky. He tells her, “Did you hear? Our man Bucky here got into the semi-finals for Sam and Thor’s competitions. He could really make it this time.”

Steve clears his throat. “Excuse me?” He’s looking at Clint, but Bucky feels his face heat up; it’s directed at him. He knows this intimately.

“Yeah, his new song has been doing well. The semi-finals start this Sunday.” Clint smiles, patting Bucky on the shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll get enough to buy his own fancy guitar this year.”

Natasha looks at Bucky, lips parted. She’s the only one he can look at. Steve’s body is vibrating with anger, his fists balled up. Bucky had promised he’d tell him when the shows were. They’ve never broken promises before, not once in over a decade. He just has.

“Is that so?” asks Steve. He nods his head, continues to do it as he circles around the living room. He picks up the heart cup, puts it back down. “Thanks for letting me know,” he grits out. Bucky feels the betrayal dripping from every word. He knocks Bucky back as he pushes through him and Clint, storming out of the apartment.

Natasha whispers, “Sorry,” to Bucky, and pecks Clint on the cheek. “See you later.”


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> performances arrive

If things were strained before, they’re worse now. Bucky isn’t even bothered by Clint’s willy when he passes next to him in the living room to eat leftover pizza crusts. His shift was rough. He worked on his lyrics as much as he could, but most of them turned apologetic instead of the resentment the previous ones held.

The day of Sam’s semi-finals, he writes a song for Steve. A song for him, about him, but that he won’t ever hear. Bucky gels his hair back, doesn’t notice the buzz of nerves as he gets on stage because he’s too upset to feel much else.

In the crowd, he spots Clint and Natasha chatting over beers. There’s some support at least. He takes a deep breath, introduces himself and the song title – My Best Everything.

Since he’s been practicing all day, writing and reworking it, it’s seared into his mind. The band knows it well, too. A soft violin intro starts the song, then just a strum of a few strings, and Bucky closes his eyes.

 

_I’m only alive_

_When I’m with you_

_I’m only alive_

_Because of you_

 

The drums kick in, and Bucky bounces his knee along to it. The guitar gets faster, rougher; a solemn little rift he found in his dreams.

 

_Too many people teased you_

_I just wanted to be you_

_I wanted to meet you_

_Long before that fight in the dark_

 

Bucky feels this song more than any other before, getting off his stool to stand in front of the mic, grabbing it tight between his hands. The band picks up the guitar rift for the chorus:

 

_Even though we haven’t spoken in weeks_

_such long weeks_

_and fight when we finally do_

_I’m still grateful, Steve_

_that I got to be with you_

 

Then he’s strumming with all he has, belting it out again, but the music stopping when he gets to the last line. He feels tears on his cheeks, but he keeps on; letting the crack in his voice speak to the audience, showing them how much he means this.

By the end, he can’t stop shaking. He slinks away backstage, finding the closest bathroom and splashing water on his face. His stomach plummets, his knees wobbling as he hurries to a stall. Leaning back against the wall, he heaves in a few breaths. He throws up, mostly water, but still.

“You’re in the women’s bathroom,” Natasha says from outside the stall.

Bucky laughs, because _of course_ he would be. “Yep.”

“As long as you knew. By the way, the crowd is begging for an encore,” she says. The door bangs when she leaves the bathroom.

As much as he’d like to, he knows he doesn’t have it in him. They’ll just have to come to Thor’s semi-finals if they want to hear it again.

 

\---

 

The next performer is on stage when Bucky feels calm enough to leave the bathroom. He finds Clint and Natasha, but they’re seated with someone else. A dark haired man with a sharp eye that catches him coming closer. The man waves at him. Bucky blinks, wondering if he knows him. he wants to talk to Clint, so he has to go over there anyway.

At the table, the man stands to greet him. “Hi. Bucky, right? I’ve just been talking to my friend Natasha. She told me to come out and hear you play.” He shakes Bucky’s hand enthusiastically. “I’m glad she convinced me. I never would have thought to find talent in such a small bar.”

Bucky swallows. “Uh, thanks? And you are?”

The man grins. “Funny.” He smirks at Natasha. “You never said he was funny, Tash.”

She crosses her arms, murmuring, “Don’t call me that in public.”

He ignores her. Leaning forward, he tells Bucky, “I’m Tony Stark of Stark Industries Music.”

Bucky falters. “W-what? _The_ Stark?”

“You bet,” he says.

For a while, Bucky just screams and cheers internally, staring at Stark with profound musical longing. _The Tony Stark_ , biggest record label owner in music history, is friends with Steve’s muse slash girlfriend. What are the odds? Clint kicks him in the shin, snapping him out of his stupor. “Ow, what!”

Natasha clears her throat, rubbing her forehead in second-hand embarrassment.

Tony chuckles. “I said, I’m going to have a talent competition at one of the local bars. I’d like to see you there. The winner gets a record deal of course. A year minimum.”

Bucky nods frantically. “Yes, Stark, sir! Sir, I should call you sir.”

Tony waves it off. “Nah, call me Tony.” He winks, and excuses himself when his phone rings.

Natasha sighs deeply. “I wish he wouldn’t try to bang all the talent.”

“I’d let him bang me,” murmurs Clint from the side of his mouth.

The smack, when it comes, is loud and swift; Bucky nearly misses it. Clint rubs his shoulder, wincing. “You didn’t have to hit so hard, Tash.”

“Yeah, I did. You want to catch another STI?” She narrows her eyes at him.

Clint swallows, chewing on his bottom lip. He laughs nervously as Bucky eyes him, startled. He shrugs, telling him, “I was young. Also, drunk. It was a long time ago.”

“Right,” says Natasha. “Anyway, Bucky, I’ll leave the info with Clint or in your room when Tony decides which bar he’s buying over.”

Bucky raises both brows. “ _Buy_? He’s not just going to rent it out?”

“Honey, if he did that, he wouldn’t be Stark.” She pats his shoulder, flitting away like a supermodel.

 

\---

 

The address is tucked underneath his armpit by a clothing-less Clint who almost gives him a heart attack with his dangly junk directly at eye-level. It’s probably Bucky’s fault for not returning to his apartment in three days, he supposes. When he wipes the crust from his sleep-tight eyes, he can actually recognize the address written down: it’s Thor’s bar. Of all the choices, Thor seemed the least likely to want to sell. It must have been an amazing offer; that was practically Thor’s home.

In the afternoon, while eating Cheerios out of a mug because Clint refuses to wash dishes – they get a visit from Thor. Clint answers the door, unperturbed by a strange man asking for Bucky. He strides in, shoulders straight, head raised proudly, hair tucked behind his ears in a clean shirt and jean combo. “Hello my friends. I have come to report a change in my situation –”

Clint collapses back into his leather sofa, sitting in a yoga position. “You sold your bar to Stark, we know,” he mutters, eyes glued on the television. He’s been staring at Meerkat Manor for the past hour already.

“Y-yes. How have you come by this information so quickly?” He looks to Bucky since Clint is too mesmerized by whether the lion will catch up to the baby meerkat or not.

“Natasha is friends with him, she told us.” Bucky smiles, patting the spot next to him on the sofa. “Why did you sell?”

Thor sits down, going silent when the narrator says, “ _Will this meerkat pup make it to its burrow in time? We can only watch and hope.”_ He becomes just as transfixed as Clint, squeezing Bucky’s thigh when the lion roars and begins to dash.

“Thor?” he asks, trying to stifle a laugh. He swats at Thor’s hand when his grip gets inhumanly tight. “Thor, I asked—”

“Yes, uh…” He can’t tear his eyes away; he whimpers when the pup croaks out for its mother.

Bucky waits a beat, still no response forthcoming. “Thor!” he laughs. “They won’t show the baby getting eaten. That would be too cruel.”

“All right.” Thor nods, turning to face Bucky. “What was your question?”

“Why did you sell?”

“Stark is a formidable man with an abundance of money.”

Bucky nods; Thor falls silent again. “Is that all?”

Thor clucks his tongue. “He promised to keep my employees. That was part of our arrangement. I wanted their income to be secure—” His voice suddenly leaps into a higher range. "How horrid!"

Clint gasps, saying, “Wow, brutal,” from the other side of Bucky.

Bucky was wrong about the whole not showing the kill on screen thing. Very wrong. Thor looks devastated, his fingers digging into Bucky’s thigh like a vice grip.

 

\---

 

After he leaves for a five-hour shift, he wonders how Thor even found him. Clint’s condo is not only far, but it’s hidden in a posh area among trees, with only a public park and giant houses around it. Not much in the way of landmarks either. He worries momentarily that Thor’s a stalker, obsessed with him – the way he beams at him like Bucky is a sun god meant to be worshipped every time he shows up to the bar…

It bothers Bucky for hours until –

“Hey, stranger,” rasps Natasha. “Did you get the message I gave Thor?”

Well, that explains it. “Yeah, I did.” He leans on the counter. “What can I get you?”

She leans in too. “Nothing. Just checking up on you.”

“Come on, buy something. My boss is in the corner watching,” he whispers.

Natasha waves at Maria. “Hey, Riri.”

Maria waves unenthusiastically, scowling at Bucky when he gapes at her. “Riri?!” splutters Bucky. “Do you know everyone in my life?” Maybe he was wrong about who the stalker was.

“I could ask you the same,” says Natasha. “Maria and Clint were both colleagues on special assignments.”

Bucky clears his throat. “Fair enough.” Now if only someone would explain what these 'special' assignments entailed.

Natasha chuckles, stepping over to the pastry counter. “You know what? Give me a chocolate & macadamia nut cookie.”

She pays, then gestures for him to come closer. “Don’t disappoint me tomorrow.” Her eyes turn sharp; she kisses him on the cheek, and waves with only the tips of her fingers. “See ya, guys.”

Maria is laughing behind her hand in the corner.

“What?” snaps Bucky, combing his hair back with his fingers. He really does need a haircut, but he can’t let Steve know he was right.

“I’ve seen her kiss of death before. You better do what she told you to,” says Maria, grinning.

 

\---

 

Two hours before Stark’s competition – in Thor’s old bar – Bucky paces Clint’s living room, behind the sofa not to obscure his meerkat marathon. Thor is still watching in spite of the sporadic, shocking deaths that occur. It’s especially upsetting because all the meerkats have names.

During commercials, Clint will say, “Have a beer. You’ll be fine, buddy.” Thor usually chimes in, lifting a thumb in the air encouragingly.

“Your girlfriend threatened me,” whines Bucky.

Clint laughs like Bucky’s never heard before; a childish trill to it that’s both interesting and aggravating. “She’s just bugging you. She’s not like that anymore.”

“Anymore?” squeaks Bucky. He holds himself up with the back of the sofa, his legs turned to jello.

“Yeah. Chill. Have a couple beers, eat some pizza.” Clint lifts the box of two-day-old meat lover’s pizza.

“I’ll pass before you start the gay jokes again.”

Clint shrugs, offering the pizza to Thor instead. He takes it with a happy growl. “Why have we not been acquainted sooner?” he asks as if speaking to a large crowd of people.

“I’ve been wondering the same thing, pal,” says Clint with a grin.

Bucky scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Okay. I’m outta here. You two lovebirds enjoy the meerkat murder.” He flings on a jacket, black military boots, a slouch hat and a red scarf for luck. This is all thanks to the explosive redhead after all, he might as well acknowledge her.

 

\---

 

The bar is somehow…changed. It’s only been a few short days since the owner swap, and it went from a humble family place to a gaudy, bright-light super-club. It’s filled to the brim with patrons, most there to see Stark – which suits Bucky just fine. There’s only ten people listed as competing, and Bucky is next to number five. He may yet have time to knock back a few beers and calm his nerves.

The bartender has a blue mullet and tattoos on his knuckles; Bucky stares at them as he slides a cold beer over to him. Someone sits on the stool next to him, talking into his ear since the crowd is getting louder each minute. “I was hoping I’d find you here.”

“Sam! Hey, man,” says Bucky. He claps him on the shoulder. “Here for the entertainment?”

“Here for you,” he says with a friendly smile. “Nah, don’t look at me like that. You know we’re friends.”

Bucky dips his head, laughing. “I didn’t think—”

Sam tilts his head in disbelief. “Really? You’re a cool dude. We’re friends as far as I see it.”

“Thanks,” says Bucky, getting emotional in spite of himself. “I mean it. I was feeling kind of out of it. The pressure’s getting to me.”

Sam flags down the bartender, ordering another round of beers. “I’ll keep you in check. You got this, Buck. No problem.”

A few people go up on stage, singing adult alternative songs, foreign language songs, a woman even goes up and does Tibetan throat singing. The lineup is interesting to say the least. At some point, more people stroll in, gathering around Stark in droves, begging for autographs and hugs. He winks at no less than fifty women, kissing a few of them on the cheek as well.

While Bucky is finally feeling a buzz, nursing his third beer, Clint whispers from behind him, “The marathon finished so we’re here.”

“Hey!” cheers Bucky, hugging Clint and shaking Thor’s hand. “Glad you guys could make it.”

“Like I said, the marathon was over,” says Clint with a smirk.

Thor’s brows crease. “It was not—”

“Shh! He doesn’t need to know we actually like him. _God_ , Thor.”

Sam laughs, shaking their hands and introducing himself. “I think Bucky here has got enough support now, don’t you think?”

“More than he deserves,” says Natasha from somewhere behind Thor. She squeezes through the taller men and gives Bucky a quick hug. “I’m still rooting for you.”

“I know,” he says, sighing. “I’ll do my best not to let you all down.” It would be nice if Steve were here too, though. His biggest support system since they were teenagers – always listening to his bad songs, not even laughing at the worst lyrics imaginable. His criticism was always constructive, kind, fair. And when a line was good, he would clap or smile so bright it gave Bucky chills. It became his new goal – to reach that smile every time, for every song – but it was harder than he thought. Now it’s probably impossible. The one thing he writes for is long gone.

He chugs the last of his beer, forcing a smile and going into the bathrooms. They ask what’s wrong, but he tells them, “I’ll be right back. Don’t worry.” He picks the first empty stall, breathing loud. His lungs are on fire. Maybe he can’t do this after all. He can’t do it at all. He can’t pursue his dream if he doesn’t have Steve beside him anymore. There’s no point; no one to make his perfect coffee, tuck him into bed when he’s drunk, tug on his hair and complain it’s too long. He needs all of that and more. He needs Steve more than he needs to write songs.

That’s what frightens him most of all.

From inside the bathroom, he hears the fourth performer end their two-set of songs. It’s his turn to face the music – literally. No time to doubt. No time to be over-emotional. There are four great people out in the bar, worried, waiting for him to perform. He has to go through with it. Just once more.

Stark’s voice booms through a quality microphone. _“Our next contestant is a local musician, who decided to go acoustic tonight for us. Give it up for James ‘Bucky’ Barnes!”_

Once he pushes through the bathroom door, finding his guitar already next to the stage, climbing those few steps feels like slow-motion. Everyone around him claps in half-time, their smiles frozen on their faces; he knows it’s just his nerves, the excitement of possibly winning a record deal finally. He takes out his guitar, strums away from the microphone to make sure it’s tune – which he knows it is – then takes a seat on the stool set for him.

“Hey there, so I wrote this for someone really important. Maybe he’ll hear it someday.”

Clint whistles as usual, and Sam howls next to him. He doesn’t see Thor and Natasha but it’s okay; he knows they wouldn’t leave until he finishes.

No violins this time, no bass and drums to accompany his guitar. It’s just him and his lyrics, working along to his finger movements. He closes his eyes and breathes out:

 

_If love is so lonely, I’m happier without it_

Bucky opens his eyes, scanning the room. Not a sound except the echo of his breathing through the sound system. He strums harder this time, saying:

 

_You were always so lovely, you just never saw it_

The tears are prickling at his eyelids; he knows he won’t be able to finish this time without crying. He misses Steve so much that it’s making his chest hurt again. It’s like the asthma he used to have to soothe Steve through as kids, except there’s nothing he can do about it.

_Too many people teased you, I just wanted to be you_

_I wanted to meet you long before that fight in the dark_

 

Even though it hurts to admit, he grabs the mic and belts out the original lyrics:

_We haven’t spoken in weeks, such long weeks,_

_and we fight like fools_

_I’m still grateful, Steve,_

_that I got to live with you_

There are a couple gasps; perhaps from people who didn’t expect the song to be about a man. He doesn’t care, though. Man, woman, both – Steve is just Steve. He’s like stars in the countryside, never dimming, always bright. That’s when Bucky begins to cry.

The next verse is said between tears, his face red with pain:

 

_I can’t believe the empty world I live in now_

_I’m sorry, sorry every day_

_That I ever let you down_

 

Bucky wipes his eyes, bowing his head to hide his face with his hair. The crowd has seen enough of him vulnerable, more than anyone has before. Except Steve. He had seen it all. Eyes trailing across the room, there are women in tears, men looking on in rapt attention, his friends by the bar, and Natasha in the middle of the crowd next to Thor and – and – _Steve_.

Steve’s eyes are wet, but he’s smiling. That beautiful, bright thing that’s worth every tear Bucky has shed. He’s worth finishing the song with an explosion of emotion. He gestures for the band to jump in for the chorus and the ending, trying to keep his tears in.

 

_We haven’t spoken in weeks, such long weeks,_

_and we fight like fools_

_I’m still grateful, Steve,_

_that I got to live with you_

 

Bucky’s looking only at Steve, and Steve is looking right back at him. Both of them grinning like the idiots they are. Before the song ends, Bucky closes his eyes and whispers, “I love you.” That’s it. This is all he can do. Doesn’t matter if he’s meant to play two songs; one will have to do because he has Steve here, smiling, and he’d give up his left arm if it meant being with him for the rest of his life. He disappears backstage to collect himself before he goes to his best friend in the crowd.

Natasha sneaks under the curtains, saying, “What are you doing back here? He’s waiting for you!”

“I need a second to – to just—”

“To _what_? I got him here for you. Don’t waste my efforts, Bucky! For weeks, all he’s been talking about is how much he missed you. He loves you. Go to him now before Stark sees him, and drags him off first.” She pushes Bucky out, and he trips over a few wires.

Stark helps him right himself. “That was something, I gotta say. Too bad that Steve guy doesn’t know what he’s missing.” He rubs Bucky’s bicep. “If you want, I could help you recover—”

Steve clears his throat from behind Stark. “Excuse me, but I’ll take it from here.”

Stark’s eyes get comically large as he glances over his shoulder. “Is this the guy?” he whispers to Bucky. He gives Steve a good look up and down, then again. “No wonder you like him so much.”

“You mean _love_ ,” corrects Bucky, staring at Steve. They step towards each other, matching smiles on their flushed faces. “Hi, Stevie.”

“Hey, Buck. Missed you,” he tells him. “A whole bunch.”

“God, I missed your cheesy way of talking.” Bucky has Steve in his personal space, and Stark is around them, hovering. He’s offering the record deal to Bucky even though he didn’t finish his set because he _believes in his talent_.

“Can you come back later?” Steve tells Stark. “I’d like to kiss my boyfriend now.” He twines their fingers, walking Bucky back against the wall.

“Boyfriend?” breathes out Bucky with a soft huff. “Who said anything about that?”

Steve narrows his eyes.

Bucky leans in, putting his forehead to Steve’s. “I was thinking more like life partner. Husband. Soulmate. Something like that.”

“And you say _I’m_ the cheesy one,” chuckles Steve, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s lips. “Call it whatever you want, just don’t leave me again.”

“I think I can do that,” murmurs Bucky, scraping his fingers along Steve’s nape.

He kisses him again, parting his lips to deepen it. Steve makes a soft whine, pressing his hips into Bucky’s, both of them up against the wall. People might be watching, taking pictures even, but it’s nothing like being in the middle of this rush of kisses, hands tickling along ribs and pressing into hip bones.

“I think we should get outta here,” pants Steve, dragging Bucky away from the wall.

Bucky hums, lunging for Steve’s mouth again. “Too far,” he moans. “Need you.”

“Do you need an audience for this, too?” asks Steve. As if on cue, at least half the crowd whistles at their display, and Bucky goes red from his hairline to his shoulders.

“No, nope. Let’s – uh – go. Now. Like right now.”

Steve salutes Natasha in the crowd, then grabs Bucky’s hand and pulls him through the club, leading him outside.


	6. Sex, I mean six!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sexytimez

“No, listen – _listen_ to me! Steve! I can’t go again yet, _mmm_ ,” moans Bucky. He’s pinned on his back, covered in both his and Steve’s release, not even on a freakin’ bed yet. They only made it to the kitchen table, and Steve has come twice already. “This isn’t cool!” His head hangs over the edge, his neck aching.

Steve gnaws on his throat, tangling their fingers. He presses his hips against Bucky’s, softly at first, then harder, sliding his length along Bucky’s. “I have you now, you can’t go anywhere.”

“You always had me, _ungh_ , please,” begs Bucky. “Just – _mm_ – just give me a second to drink some water.”

“Can’t wait,” groans Steve, grinding their hips together. “Want you to do me this time.”

Bucky snaps his head up. “ _Do_ you? You mean like—”

“Fuck me, yes. I want you inside me. Pumping, hard and fast. As long as you can.” He sucks a sharp kiss against Bucky’s nipple, teething on it. “Well?”

A high moan squeezes out of Bucky, his eyes fluttering. Fuck, he’s never heard Steve curse this much in one day. Didn’t know he had such a dirty mouth either. Or a talented tongue. Or – “Yeah, okay. But can we move to the, you know, bed?”

 

\---

 

Their clothes must be somewhere because they haven’t a stitch on in a while. Steve’s kisses are frantic, pulses of touch, lingering caresses on Bucky’s lips that make his heart race as if running a mile. They’re sweating, in a bed – Bucky’s not sure whose; could not be a bed at all – the sheets tangled around their ankles, their thighs folded over each other’s. To be honest, Bucky doesn’t want to leave ever again if he can have this sultry rutting eternally.

Steve whimpers his name like a tempo; he moans each time like an echo. Bucky’s been with men, quite a few, but Steve hasn’t – that’s why it was so surprising when he asked to be taken. It makes sense, though.

Gently, Bucky flips their positions so he’s on top, finding a spot along Steve’s collarbone to bite. Everything about him tastes fresh, delicious, like a fruit finally ready to be plucked. His pale skin is a soft pink along his cheeks, so Bucky traces that with his tongue, trailing down to his mouth. He punctuates each smack of their lips with his hips pressing against Steve’s. Finally, with his eyes half-lidded, Steve grabs Bucky’s face. “Please, I need you, Buck.”

And Bucky’s never been able to turn his cute, pink pout down. He kisses him once more, slowly, dragging his teeth over Steve’s bottom lip before nodding. “Yeah, okay. Spread your thighs a bit more.”

Steve is astonishingly flexible for someone built like he is; his legs part easy, wide enough to fit two people between them. Bucky doesn’t want to think of that though; imagine Steve with two ladies and their tongues wrapped around this beautiful, long cock. It’s his place, always will be. Steve’s not going to want anyone else once he starts.

“Yeah,” breathes Steve. “Yeah, show me how much I belong to you.”

Bucky wants to slap himself for saying it out loud again. He wiggles his body down against the sheets, tongue running slick down each muscular thigh. He bites where they connect with pelvis, and Steve gasps, fisting a hand in Bucky’s hair. He slides lower, tonguing softly at light blond pubic hair, pressing it flat with his saliva. Steve’s hips jerk and his eyes screw shut. “Bucky, don’t make me wait.”

“All right, hold your pretty little horses.” One of Bucky’s hands finds Steve’s free one, holding it gently; the other holds the base of Steve’s length, and he just – _goes_ for it. Mouth tight and slick, he slurps and sucks, all the way down the shaft, drooling for the taste of clean sweat, pre-come. Steve’s hips almost choke him when he suddenly thrusts up into his mouth, but he eases back down slowly.

That’s not what Bucky wants though; he wants it bad. Wants it rough and aching; wants his jaw to click when he opens it too wide in the morning on a yawn. He gags himself on Steve’s cock next, pushing it deep enough to disappear down his throat. His eyes start to tear up with the lack of air, but Steve keeps making high keening sounds that have Bucky too hot to pull back. Eventually, he does, gasping in hot lungfuls of air. Steve wipes the corner of Bucky’s eyes gently, smiling. “Don’t do that again or we’ll both die.”

Even in this situation, Steve makes him laugh. He muffles it against his elbow, pushing Steve’s cock flat against his stomach. He laps at hairless flesh beneath, perineum to furled entrance. Just a few kitten licks at first, then long strokes with his tongue.

Steve whimpers, body trembling towards the sensation. He folds himself in half, giving Bucky more access; his tongue delves deeper. Pushing in hard, Bucky tastes musk and warm flesh, the core of Steve a mess of arousal and slick. He moans with each new flavour, making Steve lose his hold of the back of knees, his hips trying to grind harder onto Bucky’s tongue. With both hands, he spreads Steve wider, sucking and darting his tongue in repeatedly. He pushes in, curling his tongue, humming continuously until Steve hold collapses.

“Fuck me,” he cries out. “Please, _please_. I’ve been ready for a decade.”

“Well, fine, you punk.” He smacks Steve’s thigh. “Can’t even let me have some fun.”

“It’s been twenty minutes, come on,” he whines. “Do I have to beg?”

Bucky’s cock gets impossibly harder at that. Better not hear Steve beg or it’ll be over before it even starts. Steve throws him a shit-eating grin when he sees Bucky leap of the bed, tangled in their sex-sheets. He falls on the floor, catching himself on the edge of bed. Pointedly ignoring Steve’s chuckle behind him, he wiggles his ass in revenge. He’s digging around the bedside drawer, then the dresser – clean, organized shirts and pants, this is Steve’s room – only to realize --

“Where’s the lube?” he shouts slightly too loud for a school night. The neighbour is gonna have him arrested someday soon.

Steve laughs softly, covering his eyes. “Do you have to let everyone know we’re having sex?”

“They would like to know, I think,” teases Bucky. “But where is it!”

“Check the bathroom,” he says with a raised brow.

Bucky raises a brow back, rushing out of the room. The bathroom cabinet has an extra-large bottle of lube just waiting for them, the plastic still on. Either he and Natasha planned for this to happen or…

He stalks back into the bedroom. “Was this for me?” He pops out his hip, trying for seductive.

With a playful shrug, Steve says, “I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I’m writing my fucking name on the bottle. I don’t care,” he tells him, leaping on the bed.

“Attaboy.” Steve beams at him, kissing him senseless.

They spend at least ten minutes with their mouth swelling and tongues searching, Bucky subtly moving his hand lower and lower, his fingers already dipped in lube. When he knows Steve is back in the mood, panting and breathing faster, he presses in a finger soft. Steve throws his head back, immediately grinding on it. “More,” he moans. “I can take it.”

“Oh, you better. ‘Cause I’m bigger than this,” groans Bucky, twisting his finger inside of Steve, his eyes locked on hooded blue ones. There’s something addictive about being around Steve; this will only make it worse. He can’t think of a reason to see anyone else. He can just fuck Steve, and be filled by him, kiss him and discover new ways to make him scream on and on…

“Bucky! I need at least two, please,” Steve begs, widening his legs.

Steve is going to kill him. At very least, he’ll ruin Bucky for anyone else. Not that he can imagine being with anyone but him. He leans in to suck at Steve’s earlobe, gnawing it between his teeth, then slides another finger along the first. Another remarkable, sexy sound slips from Steve’s lips and he shuts his eyes. His hips roll in circles, grinding Bucky’s fingers along the edges of him, forcing him deeper.

The heat is suffocating, tight and perfect. There’s nothing like it. Bucky could do this all day; toying with the muscles that squeeze and loosen like lungs inhaling and exhaling. It’s beyond sex – it’s organic, almost ritualistic the way he penetrates Steve in rhythm to his breaths, in and out, in and out. Steve grabs his hand with a wheeze, tugging his fingers out. Bucky winces in sympathy, knowing what it’s like to be emptied so quickly.

“Don’t make me ask again,” growls Steve, narrowing his eyes. “Or I’ll just use you like the Buck you are and ride you all night.”

Bucky wants to laugh, he really does. But it’s just – “Fuck, that sounds incredibly hot. Next time. We’re definitely doing that next time, right?”

“Oh yeah, weekly if you want.” Steve smirks, gesturing for Bucky to come closer. “So long as you fuck me now because I can’t take much more.”

“Says the man who had two orgasms already,” mutters Bucky, lining himself up.

Steve strokes along Bucky’s body, cupping his ass. “And we’ll be even if you get inside me. _Hurry_.”

A condom might have been a good idea, but he isn’t Stark; doesn’t get that much tail as a poor musician. And he knows Steve is too busy drawing and being broody to collect diseases either. With a blur of movement, Bucky has his length slicked and he pushes in, in, all the way. His heart stops momentarily.

Steve’s eyes are wide, his nails digging into Bucky’s ass. “Fuuuck,” he exhales. “I didn’t know it was like this.”

Bucky laughs out, “Wait ‘til I start moving.”

Nodding, Steve closes his eyes, holding on to Bucky with hands and legs wrapped around him. They move in tandem, rucking the sweat-soaked sheet up to the head of bed with each of Bucky’s thrusts. The sound of skin slapping fills the room, their moans only an afterthought of noise. Steve clings like he might fall, like Bucky’s his raft to safe waters; and Bucky buries his face in Steve’s neck, holding on for all he’s got, desperate to make this last for more than five minutes. He pushes in, hips moving in tight movements, Steve’s feet bouncing against his ass each time. _One more thrust_ , Bucky chants in his mind, _one more_ , _just one more_ , focus, _one more_.

It’s the only way he can keep his punishing rhythm up – the headboard banging against the wall that’s connected to Bucky’s bedroom (luckily). Steve whimpers and squeezes tighter around Bucky, gulping air like he did when they were kids. The memory nearly makes him stop until Steve starts to speak, whining his name, grappling for his shoulders. “ _Bucky_ , Bucky, please. Please. I can’t take anymore. _Please_.”

His mantra doesn’t stop him from ramming in to the hilt, impaling Steve with the last of his strength and releasing with a cry of pleasure. Steve on his tongue, beneath his hands, in his mind, before his eyes – all around him. Surrounding him like wind and skin. Not far behind, Steve explodes with his body tight like a violin bow, shooting hot and white up his chest and stomach. They lay tangled and panting for a little while, caressing each other’s hair. Waiting as their breathing gets back to normal.

When Bucky finally pulls out, there’s a loud puff of air. Eerily like a fart. On second thought, it’s most definitely a fart. Probably due to the feeling of release after being coiled for so long. Steve is covering his face with both hands in embarrassment. His shoulders shake with laughter, his stomach muscles jumping on beat. Bucky starts laughing too, pretending to sniff the air.

“Oh, boy, Steve,” he says solemnly, moving away. He sits back on his haunches, hands on his knees.

Steve uncovers part of his face, just enough to see. “What?”

“I don’t know if I can ever have anal sex again. You may have scarred me for life. This is it: I can never get hard again.” He shakes his head, acting melodramatic with a hand pressed to his forehead.

Steve sighs, nodding. “I thought you might say that. How ‘bout if I write you a check for ten blowjobs?”

“Ten you say?” asks Bucky with a grin, hovering closer now. “Redeemable when?”

“At the time of your choosing. As many per day as needed.” Steve opens and closes his thighs, his cock showing signs of renewed life.

“Yeah, I think that could certainly help the healing process along.” Bucky grins, kissing Steve’s navel. “You’re lucky there’s no smell.”

Steve traces Bucky’s lip with his thumb, pushing it inside his mouth. “Bet you’d still love me.”

“Of course I would, punk,” whispers Bucky.

 

\---

 

 

Things go back to normal – as normal as they can now that they fuck in both rooms, as well as on every surface possible when there isn’t company stopping by unexpectedly. Bucky’s too ashamed to contact Stark; his lyrics are shitty again. Steve doesn’t care though because they’re still about him.

 

_I get to fuck him_

_I get to fuck him_

_and you’re jealous_

_you’re so damn jealous_

 

 

As Steve is snoring – a record-breaking five orgasms this time - Bucky writes about him passed out, a smile on his face, disheveled and naked.

 

_My boyfriend smells like sex_

_looks like it_

_but he’s pretty cute_

_when he’s asleep_

_His lashes long_

_His mind at peace_

_He doesn’t snore_

_Not anymore_

 

He records a basic guitar rift to go along, and finds himself pleased. He sings it a couple more times, correcting this and that, and then plays it again. He likes it. He likes it a lot, actually. Maybe he could use this. Steve is his muse after all.

Against his better judgment, Bucky emails the song to Stark. He watches Steve in a trance, wondering if he’ll be mad about something so personal – not that he has been in the past. Not even ten minutes later, his cellphone beeps with a new text message. It’s Stark. How does he even have his number…?

Stark says he loves the gentle and sensual lyrics. _I’ll sign you on one condition: send me a picture of your boyfriend like that._

Bucky deliberates long and hard for the better part of five minutes, before deciding that Steve would understand. It’s for his career! They need money to keep having sex at their leisure, don’t they? Besides, if he’s raking in the dough, Steve can have more time to paint and be at home. He answers with, _See photo attached. I expect at least a two-year contract._

_Done. Stark out._

When Steve whimpers, a shiver travelling down his spine, Bucky covers him up with the baby blue sheet. He curls up around him, kissing his shoulder blade. “Will you forgive me for that?”

 

\---

Steve makes him volunteer to pose nude for an art class in retaliation. It’s completely worth it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> comments appreciated if you have the time :)


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